


Just Des(s)erts

by Proctor



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ...or rather Geralt's attempt at it, ...well it's Geralt's comfort so...you know, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Bickering, Curses, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Fun. Filth. And Feels :), Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Semi-established relationship, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29107728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proctor/pseuds/Proctor
Summary: *Jaskier ran both palms down over his flushed face and took a deep breath. “All right, all right. No need to panic, we just need to think about this logically. How long do curses normally last?”“Curses don’t just leave of their own volition, Jaskier,” Geralt replied. “They’re lifted. And often certain criteria must be fulfilled in order to make that happen. If you don’t know what that criteria is, then it could last…" He paused. "...Well, it could last a lifetime.”“Wh-!? Don’t say that, Geralt! I can’t live like this! Nobody would take me seriously ever again!”“Nobody takes you seriously now.”*Or: A fortune-teller warns Jaskier of an impending curse. Geralt isn't too sympathetic.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 36
Kudos: 223





	Just Des(s)erts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello fine people!
> 
> I was in the mood for some curse action! Granted, it's no new concept, but I hope you enjoy my little contribution nevertheless. :)
> 
> As always, I apologise to my cousins across the pond for any British words or phrases that are unfamiliar.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :D

Geralt ate his stew, chewing on the tough meat in its sludgy gravy, swallowing with effort, then washing it down with a glug of ale to take the taste away. He’d had worse, but not by much.

It was comparatively peaceful in the tavern, especially for this time of night; nobody had been punched in the face, vomited on the floor, or deemed it appropriate to stand drunkenly on the table and whip their cock out (which may seem like a trivial mercy given the frequency of its occurrence, but he’d seen some particularly odious specimens that could quite easily put a man off his dinner). The surrounding chatter was fairly benign too, only turning to grumbles of dissent whenever someone opened the door and let a draught in (a fiery-haired dwarf each time shouting: _‘shut the fuckin’ door, ye eejit!’)_. Even Jaskier was quiet, though only because his mouth was currently stuffed full of apple pie, stuffed to the point that his cheeks bulged absurdly with it, crumbs sticking to the corner of his lips with an upward smear of apple sauce.

Geralt sighed to himself. _What a fool_. Sometimes he wondered what possible sexual allure he found in the bard.

Jaskier caught his dismayed gaze, looked at him with a wide-eyed, almost innocent expression of bewilderment, then gave a muffled: “whathswhrong?” while attempting to keep the contents of his mouth from spilling out onto the table. He looked so ridiculous, so hopelessly childish that Geralt couldn’t decide if he found it endearing or tragic. Perhaps a little of both.

“Nothing,” he replied. “You just look so…enchanting.”

Jaskier snorted a laugh around his food then swallowed with a hard gulp and licked his lips. “I always do. I’m amazed it’s taken you this long to appreciate my aesthetic charm. In fact, just yesterday a barmaid told me I was absolutely adorable.”

“I was there, Jaskier. She said you were absolutely deplorable.”

“Ehhhhh. Same difference.”

“Not even close.”

“Anyway, I’m afraid I got a bit caught up in my pie just there–bloomin’ marvellous, so it is,” Jaskier remarked, then looked up at the ceiling and tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Sour at first certainly, but gradually mellowed by a subtle, underlying sweetness. Heh. Bit like you, eh, Geralt? You big softy you,” he grinned, reaching across the table and clapping him on the arm. “How’s your beef stew?”

“Bit like you.”

Jaskier gave an exaggerated bat of his eyelashes. “What, tender and wholesome?”

“No. Thick and offensive.”

Jaskier tittered. The comment itself was no less cutting than usual nor was its bland delivery, but he noticed that Geralt had kept his eyes on him after he’d said it, something he did when he knew he was being cheeky and wanted to wait around for the reaction. And indeed, the moment he began to laugh, he saw Geralt’s lips quirk into a tiny smile. Jaskier nudged him playfully under the table with his boot, but kept it there so that their calves rested snugly against each other.

Just then, a cold blast of air rushed through the room as the tavern door opened. Jaskier shivered at the chill, and a thick-accented voice behind him, for the dozenth time tonight, relayed everyone’s feelings on the matter.

He was about to get back to his dessert when he caught sight of the visitor, an elderly woman, short and hunched over, with what looked like one glass eye; she was dressed in swathes of vibrant fabrics fringed with beads, various charms hung around her neck, and she was carrying something hidden beneath her cloak.

He watched her curiously for a minute or so as she began shuffling around, approaching one table after another and pointing to whatever it was she was clutching, the patrons each shaking their heads in turn and waving her on.

“What do you suppose that old woman’s selling, Geralt?”

“Whatever it is, don’t buy it,” Geralt warned, taking another swig of ale and wiping his mouth on the back of his glove. He’d been around long enough to see his fair share of inebriated men being duped into purchasing odd or suspect goods when fuelled by whim and high spirits, no doubt regretting their decision in the morning when they awoke to find that they’d bought ten broken broomsticks, five phallic-shaped doorknobs, and a stuffed donkey. Jaskier may not be drunk…yet, but he suffered two greater afflictions that put him at risk: curiosity and gullibility.

“Maybe they’re roses,” Jaskier mused. “That’s not uncommon. Nice idea really. I bought one for a lady-friend once. Got covered in greenfly. Do you want one?”

“Mm,” Geralt nodded. “The greenfly really sold me.”

Jaskier looked up as the old woman approached their table and gestured to a large leather bag under her cloak.

“Potions, good sirs?” she crooned. “Care for a potion? I have many. For all heart’s desires.”

Jaskier was a little disappointed. He’d half-hoped they _were_ flowers, just so he could give one to Geralt, hear him grumble about it, yet know that his oft-surly witcher would subtly slip it into his pack as they left the table. He knew this because he’d found a withered daisy in Geralt’s coin purse once, something he’d tucked behind his ear in the summer, said it made him look more approachable. Geralt had told him to fuck off of course, but had kept it all the same: too cold a man to thank him for it, too warm a man to throw it away.

“Potions, eh? Nah, not really my thing,” he told the woman, snapping from his thoughts. “I’ve given it a go a few times and I regret to say that it’s never ended well. Had one once that was supposed to give me a stomach like a washboard. You know, like his, only without all the twirling around and jumping about.” He pointed a thumb at Geralt. “Ended up vomiting blue for three days. The retching did strengthen said muscles though, so _technically_ I got what I asked for. Ha! Got monkey-pawed there, didn’t I? No-no, Geralt’s your potion man. Loves the stuff. Can’t get enough of it. You should see it, his eyes go black and he can move like a cat, which is funny, because when you ask him over to socialise, he moves like a dog that’s been called for a bath. Sometimes I have to drag him by the belt.”

The woman looked at Geralt expectantly.

“Mine are…specific.”

“Then perhaps, good sir, you wish to have your fortune told,” she suggested instead.

“Fortunes as well, eh!?” Jaskier exclaimed, rather impressed. “Diversification. I like it. We’ve all got to have a plan B, don’t we? If witchering doesn’t work out for him, he’s going to open a bakery, aren’t you, Geralt?”

The old woman eyed Geralt’s swords and black leather armour sceptically.

“What can I say?” Geralt drawled with a slow, exaggerated shrug, “I love baking.”

“Well, I already know what’s in _my_ future,” Jaskier announced. “Money, fame, and a _whooole_ lotta sex.” He looked at Geralt and winked suggestively, hoping it might inspire a pursuit of his company tonight–it had been several weeks since they’d last lain together (well, three weeks and four days if you were counting, which of course he wasn’t), and though their frolics were more of the ‘as and when’ variety, he thought he ought to offer a reminder, a hint, just in case he’d been forgotten about. Geralt–and not unexpectedly–arched an eyebrow at him, either at the presumptuousness of the remark or the boldness of the gesture. _It wasn’t a ‘yes’, but it wasn’t a ‘no’ either. He might have to persevere._

“I notice you don’t have a crystal ball,” he said, turning back to the old woman. “So what is it? Tea-leaves, palms…? Do you know, Geralt, I met this whore once, rather mature in age she was–of course the best ones always are. Anyway, _she_ reckoned that she could tell a man’s future by the distribution of veins on his erect cock.”

“Could she?”

“Well, she told _me_ that I was: _‘soon to be in receipt of a hand-job’_. And would you believe it? She was right!”

“Shocking,” Geralt smiled.

“I know!” Jaskier grinned.

“NO CRYSTAL BALLS, NO LEAVES, NO PALMS, O INQUISITIVE ONE!” the old woman boomed loudly and theatrically, turning a few heads in the process. She then leaned forward and looked above her as though surrounded by an unknown force. “ONLY…the _voiiiiices…_ ” she finished, widening her mismatched eyes, waving her hand in a circle through the air, and fluttering her fingers mystically as though sprinkling fairy dust.

“Yeesh. Think _this_ one’s out to lunch,” Jaskier muttered to Geralt out the side of his mouth, swirling a fingertip around his temple.

Geralt gave him a kick under the table.

“Ouch. Ahem. Well, why not, eh? Could be fun.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt cautioned. He didn’t believe in fortune-telling, and this woman seemed like the biggest charlatan of the lot, but it could still be dangerous for someone like Jaskier who, no matter what he was told, was likely to act irrationally.

“It’s _fiiine_ , Geralt. Not like I’m going to act _irrationally_ or anything. And it just so happens,” Jaskier continued, facing the woman once more, “that I have some silver with which to cross your palm this evening. So yes, in lieu of my narrow-minded and tight-fisted companion here, I accept your proposal. DEPART ONTO ME THY KNOWLEDGE, O WRINKLY ONE!” he boomed in crude mimicry of her.

Geralt sighed, partly in woe of Jaskier’s unseemly behaviour, and partly because he’d hoped for a quiet night, and this was not it. Still. He’d done all he could. Jaskier was a grown man after all (even if he had to remind himself of that fact on a daily basis), the bard could do as he wished.

The old woman scraped a stool across the floor to the table, placed her bag beside her, and hunkered down between them. She then closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose. When she opened them, she looked off to the side, squinting and straining her neck as though trying to make out a hushed conversation. “What is that you speak of, o great voices from beyond…?” she asked. “Ahh, I see… is that so? Yes. No. Hmm…most troubling, most troubling indeed…”

Geralt rolled his eyes. _What horseshit._

“The voices…” she finally said, speaking with great authority yet pausing unnecessarily, presumably to prolong the anticipation, “…they tell me…you are……a _lustful_ man.”

For a moment Jaskier only blinked…

…then suddenly erupted into laughter.

“Ha-ha- _haaaa_!” he wheezed, slapping a hand on his knee, and it took a moment for him to catch enough air in his lungs to speak. “Look, I don’t mean to burst your bubble or anything, old girl! But it’s _hardly_ the revelation of century! Heck! Half of Oxenfurt could have told you _that!_ ”

“The voices…” she continued, “…they say…that you are also…a _liar._ ”

His face fell. “All right, a third of Oxenfurt.”

She stared steadily.

“A quarter?”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“All right, fine. Fourteen women, six men, and an enthusiastically consenting goat.”

She recoiled slightly, looking him up and down and curling her wrinkly top lip in disgust.

“Ohhhhh, _come on!_ It was a _joke!_ ” he laughed again, then seeing her contemptuous expression, cleared his throat, steepled his fingers, and composed himself. “Two goats.”

Geralt chuckled softly and shook his head.

“ _See._ Hegets it.”

“You shall be punished for your lust and lies, child!” she suddenly screeched, banging her fist on the table then pointing a crooked ringed-finger at him. “For your wicked nature has not gone unnoticed! There are those who wish you ill, and for good reason! Take heed and beware! For a terrible curse shall befall you!”

“It already has. Have you _heard_ Geralt’s conversation skills?”

The fortune-teller scowled but lowered the pitch of her voice, speaking slowly but firmly. “The wheel of fate has been set in motion, and I cannot help you with blessing nor potion. Be prepared, my child, for your dreadful plight, for it begins this very night.”

Geralt gave a vaguely amused ‘hmph’. _Well, at least it rhymed_. He then stood, patted Jaskier’s shoulder, and made his way to the bar for a refill. He’d heard enough.

*

When Geralt returned, Jaskier sat alone at the table, twiddling his thumbs, the rest of his pie left untouched.

“Money well spent?” he asked him.

“Try everything once, that’s what I say,” Jaskier offered optimistically, but Geralt could hear the slight unease in his voice. He’d seemed so unaffected before, thoroughly facetious in fact, but his mood had noticeably changed in the short while he had been away.

“Say, Geralt,” Jaskier began after a minute of silence. “You don’t believe in any of that curse business, do you?”

“I wouldn’t worry, Jaskier.”

“No, no. Quite right, quite right. Load of rubbish, I reckon. She was probably just trying to give me a scare. Bet she’s outside right now, laughing her arse off.”

Geralt didn’t find him too convincing, but watched him perk up and cheerfully finish the last of his pie, even going so far as to lick the apple sauce from his fingers. He couldn’t be too concerned.

When done, Jaskier stood from the table, brushing the crumbs from his trousers. “I’m going upstairs,” he said. “Getting a bit noisy down here now, and believe it or not, I think I’ve had enough drama for one night.”

Geralt gave an acknowledging ‘mm’, but noticed that Jaskier was lingering, swaying idly on the spot with his hands on his hips, then checking his nails, quietly waiting for something before finally speaking. “Will you be…joining me?”

Geralt raised his full tankard a little off the table and gestured towards it.

“Right. Yes. Of course,” Jaskier nodded steadily. “Well. Maybe I’ll see you later then. Or not. That’s fine too. No need to hurry. I’m just letting you know where I’ll be, should you need me to umm…help you…take Roach…for a…horse…err…walk,” he finished awkwardly, then pressed his lips together and hung his head as if internally berating himself before turning on the heels of his boots and promptly walking away.

Once he had left, Geralt smiled to himself.

It wouldn’t be the first time Jaskier had tried to (not so) subtly enquire about his plans after announcing his dinner-departure, and it tended to mean only one thing…

It had been a few weeks since they’d had a fumble (not that Jaskier would be keeping count), and while he may have treated the earlier wink with a less than eager response, he’d be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind…

*

Geralt didn’t rush his ale, but he didn’t draw it out either, and after draining the final dregs from his tankard, left a handful of coins on the table then made for the stairs. He reached the upper landing, approached the door to their room, turned the handle, took one step inside and…

…stilled, tilting his head curiously at the sight before him.

Jaskier sat naked on the opposite edge of the bed with his back to him, his skin glistening with sweat in the low candlelight. His right hand was snaked around his front, his arm and shoulder jiggling furiously with its unseen movements. A wet, filthy, and entirely familiar flapping sound filled the room, and it was accompanied by a few strained groans and the occasional profanity. Along with a bottle of oil, a crumpled up handkerchief lay beside him, the fabric sticky with something, presumably semen, which stood to reason, as the place reeked of male sex.

Geralt folded his arms and smirked. Perhaps Jaskier had grown impatient and started without him, or perhaps he’d decided to knock one out beforehand so he might last a little longer this time–though why or how he would continue to pleasure himself afterwards, he had no idea. No matter the reason, Jaskier was clearly engrossed in the act as he appeared completely unaware of his presence. Geralt briefly considered waiting until he was finished, it would have been the courteous thing to do, but the temptation to interrupt him was too great.

“Enjoying yourself?” he said.

“S-shit!” Jaskier gasped, the voice causing him to nearly jump off the bed like a startled cat. Dropping his cock, he spun around to find Geralt standing casually in the doorway smirking at him. “F-fucking hell, Geralt…W-what the…? H-how long have _you_ been standing there?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“ _Wh-?_ No, you haven’t.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, it…it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,” he said with a quick and uncoordinated shake of his head, “I’m…I’m glad you’re here.”

“Not sure _I_ am. Might have been better taking Roach for a horse-walk.”

“N-no. You…you don’t understand, Geralt,” he continued breathlessly, wiping the copious sweat from his brow and pushing his hair back from his face. “I think…I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“I’ve been saying that for a while.”

“No, I mean…physically.”

“So do I. I put it down to your permanently moronic facial expression.”

“Geralt, this is serious! I…” Jaskier had no idea how to explain this, but he had to try. Geralt would know what to do, he always had a solution. He glanced from side to side, fearful of eavesdroppers, and beckoned Geralt over with an urgent wave of his hand. “Come here, come here. And for _goodness_ sake, close the door. Can’t have _everyone_ seeing me like this.”

He watched Geralt stand for a few seconds longer, sluggishly unfold his arms, then gently close the door behind him and saunter over, clearly unmoved by his emergency. He scrambled naked across the sheets when Geralt perched on the bed, and sat cross-legged beside him, leaning in close and lowering his voice. “…Geralt, are you listening, Geralt?”

“I’m listening, Jaskier.”

“Geralt, I’ve…”

He stopped.

“You’ve…what?” Geralt asked.

He cupped his hand to Geralt’s ear and in a nervous whisper said: “…I’ve ejaculated three times in the last half-hour.”

Once he’d said it, he quickly pulled back and anxiously bit on one of his fingernails, awaiting Geralt’s reaction.

Geralt stared at Jaskier blankly for a moment then, when the comment finally sunk in…he chuckled. ** _ **That’s**_** _what all this fuss was about? If anything, such a feat was aspirational for most men, Jaskier especially._ “And your complaint is what? That you didn’t get a round of applause?”

“My _complaint_ , Geralt _,_ among others, is that between these many…emissions, I have not once…I have not once reverted to a state of sexual dormancy.”

Geralt gave a confused grunt and saw Jaskier roll his eyes.

“My willy hasn’t gone down,” Jaskier clarified, pointing subtly towards his oil-covered prick, which still stood to attention between them, the tip poking his belly.

 _Hmm. That was slightly more unusual_. Geralt himself was capable of climaxing multiple times if he wanted to–a byproduct of his mutations (though one he didn’t tend to indulge much these days as he preferred a single spill and a nap), but even _he_ needed a recovery period between bouts; Jaskier, when able to muster a second, needed significantly longer. “Hm. That is a little…odd.”

“Odd!?” Jaskier squeaked. “I needn’t remind you of our continued sexual exploits, Geralt, but you should know by now that it’s not merely odd, it’s impossible. Not only that but my skin feels like…like its on fire, and I have this…uncomfortable level of arousal and yet I can’t seem to sate myself.”

Geralt shrugged. “Go to a brothel then.”

“What, like this!? I’d take someone’s eye out!”

“Unlikely. They’d have to be two and a half inches away from you.”

“Oh, fuck off, Geralt.”

Geralt grinned. He didn’t mean it. Jaskier had a fair-sized cock, pretty too, but still quite a bit smaller than his own, and he liked to tease him about that sometimes.

“Well, I’m glad you find this all very amusing, Geralt. But let me assure you, it’s no laughing matter. And it’s certainly no blessing. Quite the opposite in fact, it feels more like a...” Jaskier paused. “… _curse_ ,” he finished quietly, his head then shooting up. “That’s it, Geralt!” he exclaimed. “The fortune-teller was right! I’ve been cursed!”

Geralt didn’t believe that. He’d seen curses. Terrible ones. Acts of retaliation for the most grievous of wrongs. Jaskier’s antics had no doubt enraged, embittered, and possibly disgusted a fair number of people, but why would anyone waste their time cursing a bard with a stiffy? No. This was nothing so serious, merely an anomaly, and Geralt would tell him so.

And yet…

…Whatever the real reason for this, it served as a wonderfully apt ‘punishment’ for the ‘lustfulness’ the old woman had accused him of, and the timing was so beautifully coincidental that to dismiss it as random and unprovoked seemed like a wasted opportunity, an opportunity for Jaskier to perhaps reflect on and reconsider his behaviour.

Geralt furrowed his brow in deep, feigned concern, pulled his mouth into a dreadful frown, and nodded slowly and seriously. “Hmm…”

Jaskier bolted upright. “W-what’s _that_ supposed to mean!? What’s _‘hmm’!?_ ”

Geralt rubbed the stubble of his chin and looked down at the floor pensively. “You…could be right.”

“What!? But earlier, you told me not to worry!”

“And at that time there was no reason to. But the situation has escalated, Jaskier. _Severely.”_

“I…I can see that…”

_“Terribly.”_

“I know. I know.”

_“Horrendously.”_

“Yes, okay _,_ Geralt, _thank you!_ I get the point! Bloody hell! _”_ Jaskier ran both palms down over his flushed face and took a deep breath. “All right, all right. No need to panic, we just need to think about this logically. How long do curses normally last?”

“Curses don’t just leave of their own volition, Jaskier,” Geralt replied matter-of-factly. “They’re lifted. And often certain criteria must be fulfilled in order to make that happen. If you don’t know what that criteria is, then it could last…” He paused for effect.“…Well, it could last a lifetime.”

“Wh-!? Don’t say that, Geralt! I can’t live like this! Nobody would take me seriously ever again!”

“Nobody takes you seriously now.”

“Geralt!”Jaskier yipped with a pout so tiny and sour that Geralt couldn’t help but grin. He placed his hand on Jaskier’s bare shoulder and gave it a jovial pat.

“Look on the bright side, Jaskier, at least this way, people will avoid you for something other than your personality.”

“I–!” But Jaskier stopped, deciding the jibe wasn’t worth his time. Instead he let his head fall forward and shook it morosely. “You’re a witcher, Geralt. You have experience in these sorts of matters, surely you can do _something_.”

“I can look into it,” Geralt gave in with a sigh. “And I will. Whatever it is. But there’s nothing I can do tonight.”

Jaskier knew that really. There would be no library or occult bookshop open, no mage or magic scholar available. That said, this feeling he had, this overwhelming need for stimulation, it had been temporarily eased by his own ministrations…though with each over-familiar tug of his cock, had lessened in effectiveness. Perhaps Geralt would fare better. “You could…offer me some relief…” he said hopefully, and feeling bold, took Geralt’s wrist by his studded bracer, guiding his gloved-hand towards his cock, but Geralt snatched it back.

“Ah-ah. No.”

“Why not?” he whined. “It’s not like you haven’t done it plenty of times before.”

“I don’t provide hand-jobs as a personal service, Jaskier, I’m not one of your ‘mature whores’.”

“Of course not, Geralt!” Jaskier stated in offence, then folded his arms and turned his nose up. “You’re not mature in the slightest.”

Geralt smirked. “If you want my help, Jaskier, you’re not improving your chances.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Pleeeease help me, Geralt, I’m dying here.”

Geralt regarded Jaskier for a long moment; the pink of his cheeks, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the haphazard mop of his chestnut hair, and the desperation in his big blue eyes. Giving Jaskier a pity-wank fell a little short of his prior expectations for tonight, but he knew well enough that Jaskier always made an effort to offer _him_ relief when he needed it most; when he would return to the inn, bruised and beaten and tired, and Jaskier would wash him, put him to bed, blow out the candle, and slip his hand under the covers and into his braies, gently pleasuring him until he spilled then curling up into his side and letting him sleep.

He sighed.

“Fine.”

Jaskier put a hand over his heart and exhaled. “Phew. Thank the gods. You’re the best, Geralt, the absolute best.”

“Hm,” Geralt sounded doubtfully.

He kicked off his boots, removed his outer armour, then pulled on the fingertip of his glove…but was stopped suddenly by Jaskier’s hand grabbing his arm. “What?”

“Just umm…just keep them on.”

He stared at Jaskier for a moment then gave a mildly intrigued lift of an eyebrow. “Hmm…saucy.”

“W-what!? No! I didn’t mean–! I…I only meant that my cock’s hot and the leather might feel cooler.”

 _“Riiight,”_ he drawled smugly.

“I–f-forget it,” Jaskier stammered, his blush deepening.

Geralt was only teasing though, it made no difference to him whether he had his gloves off or not, he just enjoyed seeing Jaskier flustered.

He shifted onto the bed, settled by Jaskier’s side and looked down at his stiff cock. It appeared rather more aggressive than usual, the heavy engorgement of blood making it a darker shade of pink, almost red in the dim, orange light.

“That’s a fierce-looking thing,” he remarked, following the swollen veins and wondering whimsically if he might tell Jaskier’s future by their patterns.

Jaskier nodded at him, though it didn’t seem to be in pride, but rather, in self-pity.

He put a hand on Jaskier’s knee, and dragged his leather-clad palm slowly up his thigh, feeling the heat of his skin radiate through the pelt. Jaskier visibly shuddered, his cock twitching and pushing out a heavy tear of precome. A sensitive reaction to such a simple touch, but a gratifying one all the same. Geralt pressed his fingertip lightly into his slit to catch the clear droplet, causing Jaskier to give a small jolt, then rolled the fluid between his finger and thumb, stretching a string of it until it snapped and clung to his glove.

Jaskier watched Geralt for a few more seconds then hesitantly put a hand on his thigh and squeezed it. “I’m…I’m flattered by your fascination with my bodily secretions, Geralt, really, I am, and one day I’ll cover your face in it, but right now, I need you to focus.”

Geralt smiled at Jaskier’s assertiveness, impatience, and at the assumption that at any point in his life he would care to have his face smeared in the bard’s sexual fluids, but decided, if only to stop being further harassed, not tease him any longer. He ran a palm over Jaskier’s cock once, pressing it to his tummy and watching it spring back up, then wrapped his fingers around the shaft and began to slide up and down in long strokes through the greasy, residual oil.

“Y-yes.…t-that’s it, Geralt…that’s it…” Jaskier encouraged feverishly, then dropped his head back into the pillow and shut his eyes, furrowing his brow and biting his lip in a mixture of concentration and reverence. The cool, buttery leather on his scorching cock offered more relief than he could have possibly imagined, and Geralt’s tight, familiar grip proved _far_ more satisfying than his own–and of course it did, Geralt’s hands knew him better than anyone’s.

“…T-touch my balls, Geralt…touch my balls.”

Geralt chuckled. “I’m not taking requests, Jaskier,” he said, but Jaskier didn’t reply, instead he blindly flailed his arm around until he found Geralt’s other hand and guided it up to his sac, clumsily cupping it around his testicles. Geralt didn’t protest though, he kneaded them slowly, and in the way Jaskier liked, all while continuing to pull on his cock, the leather creaking around each as he flexed his fingers.

He imagined the dual sensation to be more than enough, it usually was, but to his surprise, Jaskier began to touch himself, running his palms up through his chest hair and pinching his small, pebbled nipples. He’d never seen him do that before, but he liked it.

Jaskier was vaguely aware of Geralt shifting on the bed, but paid it no mind until he felt a nose at his fingers, nudging them aside. When he relented, reluctant to lose the stimulation, he suddenly felt a hot, wet mouth on him; full lips sucking at the bud then a nimble tongue flicking over it. “…F-fuck, Geralt…” he gasped, and quickly wrapped both arms tightly around Geralt’s neck and hauled him down, squashing his witcher’s soft mouth and chiselled nose into his chest.

Geralt dilated his nostrils against Jaskier’s skin to suck in some air through the partial smothering, and began moving his hand quicker on his cock to hurry the process so he didn’t suffocate.

“...O-oh…I’m nearly there, Geralt...I’m nearly there…just a little more…just a–”

Geralt felt Jaskier’s balls rise within his clothed-palm, his cock pull up in his fist, and while he couldn’t see his face, the indelicate _‘Urrgh’_ above him told him he’d found his release.

He continued to gently stroke and suck him until he felt the arms around his neck finally loosen. He pulled back, wiping the spit from his lips on his glove and looking down at Jaskier’s beet-red face…which appeared rather satisfied considering the suggestion that he couldn’t be sated. His eyes then travelled down further to his cock…

…which was still as deep pink and rigid as before. He frowned quizzically at it.

Jaskier caught sight of Geralt’s nonplussed expression and sat up. “What’s…the matter?” he breathed.

“You’re still…hard.”

Jaskier carded his fingers through his sweat damp hair and looked at his cock, then at Geralt, and despite the pleasure he had just received, lifted his hands and loosely slapped them on his thighs in exasperation of Geralt’s slow uptake. “That’s what I’ve been _saying_ , Geralt,” he scolded. “…Or did you doubt me?”

“Well, you _have_ been known to embellish the truth, Jaskier.”

“What!?” he spluttered, affronted by the mere suggestion. “Well now, _that_ is just…j-just…uh…” But he caught Geralt’smuch-used _‘seriously, Jaskier?’_ expression, and stopped. “All right fine. Sometimes I do, but not with this. I’m definitely cursed, Geralt. No question about it.”

Geralt looked back at Jaskier’s prick. _Who knows, maybe he was._

“Ugh, who would _do_ this to me, Geralt?” Jaskier complained. “Who hates me _this_ much?”

“The list, Jaskier…it’s so very, very long.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“Maybe it was the old woman herself,” he offered.

“What, you think… _she_ cursed me? But why would she do that?”

“Perhaps she was offended by your shameless boasting, your flagrant disrespect, and your general buffoonery.”

“But I wasn’t behaving any differently from usual.”

“I know,” he agreed. “Frankly, I’m amazed nobody has attempted this before now. In fact, given the frequency with which you piss people off, I’m amazed you’re still alive.”

“It’s been close.”

“Unfortunately, not close enough,” Geralt sighed, then smiled, giving Jaskier’s already-messy hair a further ruffle.

Jaskier grumbled and sat up then got on his hands and knees and faced the headboard, already feeling the temporary relief of Geralt’s hand waning. He spread his thighs wide and pulled apart the cheeks of his backside, stretching the skin around his hole and baring himself openly.

“Right. Fuck me.”

Geralt gave an amused scoff. He wasn’t much of a fan of pleasantries himself, but it was by far the most curt and demanding sexual invitation he’d ever received.

“What, you’re not going to offer me a drink?” he asked. “Give me a massage? Get me in the mood?”

“If you’re going to act like a child about this, Geralt, then I’ll do it myself,” Jaskier huffed, and ferreted around for the bottle of oil. He poured some carelessly onto his fingers, most of it dribbling onto the sheets, and held the glass against the bed, reaching his other arm back and groping around his arse.

Geralt sat there smiling, enjoying Jaskier’s attempts to maintain his sulk while concentrating on touching himself, but the smile began to fade when he noticed that Jaskier’s fingertip, which had made a chaotic wet trail down the cleft of his buttocks, was now trembling slightly against his entrance. _It was probably for effect_ , he reasoned, _just to make him feel guilty…but there was always the chance that it wasn’t._

"Hey now. Stop that. Come on,” he said softly. “Give me that.”

He prised the bottle from Jaskier’s clutched hand, uncorked it, and liberally coated two gloved-fingers in oil, all while listening to the mumbled carping beneath him.

“Easy now, Jaskier. Deep breaths.”

“If you want to teach me meditation, Geralt, now is really not the time.”

“I don’t expect it to help you find inner peace,” Geralt smiled, “but it might just give me some,” and pressed the tip of his middle finger against the centre of his pucker…which suddenly closed up into a tight, frightened little curl.

“H-have you still got your gloves on?” Jaskier stammered, clenching against the cold, leathery prodding, the tips of his ears burning.

“I thought you might appreciate it, given your…proclivities.”

“Wh–? Will you _stop_ saying that!”

“No need to be ashamed, Jaskier. Your sexual deviancies won’t make me think any less of you. That would be impossible after all.”

Jaskier was about to smack him, but any thought to move or complain disappeared when he felt Geralt’s thick, gloved finger begin to push inside him, a soft, shaky ‘ah’ being the only response he could manage. He hung his head and breathed deeply as instructed, adjusting to the peculiar yet arousing sensation of being probed by something that felt both familiar and foreign.

Geralt moved the digit in and out until Jaskier’s muscles slackened fully around him, and with that, slowly eased in a second, eliciting a long, pleasured groan. “See,” he said, “it’s easier for both of us when you’re not fussing.”

Jaskier nodded and lowered his upper body onto the bed, wrapping his arms around the pillow and resting his cheek on it as he allowed himself to be gradually worked open, the sudden silence making his prior ranting seem excessive by comparison. Goodness knows what Geralt made of all this; he’d probably just wanted a quiet night, but here he was, caught up in all this drama, _his_ drama. Jaskier hadn’t looked, and he didn’t want to turn around now, but he wondered if Geralt was aroused by this in the slightest.

“Are you…hard?” he asked quietly.

“Of course I am,” Geralt replied as though it were a stupid question.

Jaskier smiled into the pillow, glad that it was a _‘yes’_ but more delighted still that it was a _‘Yes. Of course. You fool.’_ “Good…”

He reached his hand back and steadied Geralt’s wrist.

“Had enough?” Geralt asked.

“I want your cock.”

Geralt was pleased to hear it. “I see. Can I take my clothes off now then? Or do you just want me to poke it through my trousers?”

Jaskier dropped his hand from Geralt’s wrist to give him a cheeky slap on the thigh. “You can take them off.”

“My thanks.”

Geralt pulled his fingers out and began to undress, perhaps a little quicker than he normally would. He was ready and eager, and had thus been somewhat surprised by Jaskier’s earlier question. _Why would he not be hard?_ Maybe his mockery had suggested otherwise, but he’d been fully aroused since he’d run a hand up Jaskier’s thigh and watched his cock twitch and leak for him; partially aroused from the moment he’d caught him pleasuring himself. _Silly bard._

He climbed back onto the bed and crawled up behind him, and with the dip of the mattress, saw Jaskier spread his legs further apart, raise his bottom, and to Geralt’s amusement, wiggle it a little in invitation.

“Mmm,” he sounded as he slicked himself up with oil, keeping his eyes fixed on Jaskier’s hole, rosy and wet from a good fingering. He held his cock and moved forward, laying the meat of it on Jaskier’s lower back then tapping it against him. “Hard enough for you?”

Jaskier nodded quickly against the pillow.

Geralt slid his cock down between Jaskier cheeks and rubbed the blunt tip over his entrance a few times, something he did to relax him when he was still a little tense. It worked, as always. Jaskier exhaled a lungful of air and dropped his shoulders further into the bed, and with that, Geralt gently pushed inside him.

“Uhhhn, fuck,” Jaskier groaned beneath him, the sound drowning out his own whispered obscenity. He buried his cock almost, but not quite, to the hilt, stilled momentarily to bask in Jaskier’s heat, then held him by the waist and slowly began rocking into him.

He had expected complaints about the gentle undulations, Jaskier requiring something fiercer and unrestrained tonight, something to quench this unusual thirst of his, but no, he simply lay there taking his cock, moaning into the pillow with each languid thrust.

Jaskier spread his legs further apart, trying to concentrate the feeling of Geralt’s girthy cock sliding wetly in and out of him. He’d been so preoccupied with acquiring as much stimulation as quickly as possible that he had briefly, and rather unforgivably, forgotten just how good it was to have sex with Geralt. And not merely the act of fucking, but rather, the intimacy of their coupling. That’s what he had hoped for before all this nonsense: intimacy; the feeling of Geralt’s sturdy body pressed to his own, the smell of earth and sweat that clung to his skin, and sound of his voice, _Gods_ , his voice…

He reached back, pawing urgently at whatever bare skin he could find.

“...C-come here, Geralt…come here…”

Geralt smiled. _Of course it was never going to be this easy. What did the bard want now? Kisses? Cuddles?_ He leaned down, bracketing Jaskier’s shoulders with his forearms, covering his clammy back with his chest, and pressing his nose against his neck as he continued to roll his hips. “Hm? What is it? What are you after?” he asked playfully.

“...T-talk to me, Geralt…talk to me…”

“Oh…?” he breathed gently, amused by Jaskier’s renewed desperation, but moreso by the request itself, which was certainly an odd one. Jaskier usually made up for both of them when it came to talking, especially during sex; he’d never been asked to offer his own contribution. “What shall we talk about…? Hm?” he whispered. “…I hear the weather in Redania’s nice this time of year.”

Jaskier whipped his head around as far as he could, but couldn’t see Geralt’s expression to work out if he was joking or not. “Wh-? I don’t mean strike up a bloody conversationwith me _,_ Geralt.”

“No…?” Geralt smiled.

“No…I mean…I mean, say dirty things to me…tell me…tell me what you want to do to me.”

“I see.”

Geralt gently rubbed their cheeks together and lowered his voice a murmur. “I want to…”

“Y-yes…?”

“I want to…”

“Uh-huh?”

“I want to…leave you at the next available inn.”

“...You’re…you’re a bastard, Geralt…”

“I know,” Geralt grinned, giving a hard thrust just to prove it, then nipping Jaskier’s earlobe with his teeth. Jaskier jerked his head away in a huff. It was cruel, he knew it, and it would be a little unfair not to give him what he wanted after toying with him like that…

Jaskier felt a palm slide up his neck and grip his hair tightly as Geralt continued to fuck him, his slow pace resuming, but the depth of that harder thrust now being favoured; he felt a hot breath on his ear, but it was a little heavier this time, and so close that moist lips brushed against him; and he felt a sudden trembling in his belly as Geralt, in that low gravelly voice, and with apparent relish, rumbled:

“I want to…fill you over and over with my cock…”

Jaskier let out a sharp breath, the words sending a flood of arousal through him, his prick giving an enthusiastic jump. He nodded wildly against the pillow in encouragement. “…W-with your…with your big witcher-cock…”

He could feel Geralt grinning against him. “…Mm, with my big witcher-cock…”

“A-and…?”

There was a moment of silence, but the contemplative ‘hmm’ Geralt then gave suggested he was trying to think of something good to say, and that he hadn’t even considered the possibility that he'd have to provide more than a single sentence.

“...You want to… fill me with your cock _and_ …?” Jaskier repeated breathlessly.

“...I want to fill you with my cock and…give you all my…” Geralt paused, “…witcher-milk…” he finished with obvious satisfaction, then added: “…from my balls,” just for clarity.

Jaskier could hardly call it poetic, but it was turning him on like nothing else. He reached beneath himself and started rapidly fisting his cock. “U-until…?”

“Hmm…” Geralt paused again. “…Until your belly’s fat with it…like a…like a pregnant sow…”

Jaskier whined and gripped the sheets with one hand while he frantically tugged himself with the other, his head moving against the pillow with every deep curl of Geralt's hips, his mouth open and drooling.

Geralt was beginning to enjoy this game. It was a lot easier than he thought.

“..And tomorrow…” he resumed, this time unprompted, and he could hear his own breath quickening, “…once all my milk has dribbled out of you, I’ll check your braies...to see how big the stain is…to see how much I put in you…and if I’m not happy with it then… well then, I’ll just have to keep fucking that little bard-hole of yours until I am.”

“...Ugh, shit…I’m going to…I'm going to...”

A second of silence, then Jaskier clenched around him, coming with a short, undignified croak. To others, it might not have been the most arousing sound in the world, but it was familiar and indicative of a good orgasm, and thus, a good fuck. He clutched Jaskier’s hair tighter and vigorously thrust into him, feeling his own release approaching and chasing it. He stilled completely, let out a shameless, ugly grunt, and emptied himself deeply, abundantly, and enthusiastically into Jaskier’s bowels.

“Fuck,” he breathed in a satisfied exhale, holding himself there for another ten seconds to ensure that Jaskier got his full load, and when done, pulled out, gave Jaskier a pat on the backside, and flopped back onto the bed.

Jaskier sat on his hands and knees for a minute trying to catch his breath while listening to Geralt attempt to do the same. Finally he turned around to face him. Geralt lifted his head to meet his gaze, took one look at his wet but still erect cock, and let his head drop back down on the sheets.

“Again?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt laughed.

“But…I feel so empty now.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. I filled you with enough ‘witcher-milk’ to drown a rat.”

Jaskier had actually been referring to Geralt’s cock rather than his release, but the idea did spark his interest. He pushed a little seed out, hearing it exit him with a gurgle, then feeling it dribble thickly down his balls. “Gosh. So you did. Well done.”

“Mm,” Geralt nodded proudly.

Jaskier crawled unsteadily over and sat beside Geralt, looking down at him, not entirely sure what he wanted. He shimmied closer then straddled Geralt’s muscular thigh and began to slowly rub the underside of his cock against it.

Geralt gave him a lazy smile. “Stop humping my leg, Jaskier.”

Jaskier slowed to a stop, thought about it for a moment, then moved up Geralt’s body, sat astride his chest, and began to rub himself there instead.

Geralt chuckled and shook his head. “I didn’t mean-” but he didn’t bother to finish. It was of little use, and his behaviour wasn’t even that surprising. Curse or no, Jaskier was still the most ridiculous person he’d ever bedded, and this was just another bizarre activity to add to the list. Besides, he should be thankful this didn’t require any effort on his part, so he just lay there, putting his hands behind his head and smiling as he watched Jaskier take his pleasure from him.

Jaskier rocked back and forth, gently sliding himself between the mounds of Geralt’s pectoral muscles through the short, tight curls of hair on his chest. The lop-sided smile on Geralt’s face seemed a tiny bit smug, but his yellow eyes sparkled affectionately, and Jaskier forgave him his earlier teasing because he realised that despite the protests, Geralt had still given him everything he had asked for, no matter how unique the request, and honestly, he couldn’t think of a single other lover he’d had who would have indulged him like that. 

Geralt placed a palm over his moving cock and held it still, thus creating a small opening for him to slide in and out of. Jaskier smiled, it was a sweet gesture, and even though he scarcely had the energy for it, he moved a little faster (though also a little clumsier), trying to fuck his way to sixth climax in Geralt’s makeshift channel.

His legs were starting to become shaky though and it was a struggle trying to keep himself upright long enough to finish. For a moment, he didn’t think he’d manage it, but then, in a surprisingly tender gesture of encouragement, Geralt put his free hand on his thigh, stroked him with his thumb, and said soothingly: “That’s it, Jaskier, there you go…” causing him to orgasm with a soft groan.

Geralt saw only a single droplet of seed squeeze out from Jaskier’s slit, and as soon as it was released, Jaskier’s body went slack, and he collapsed back onto the bed, spreading himself out like a starfish. Geralt crawled over to him and lay by his side, propped up on an elbow.

“Shall we leave it there for tonight?”

Jaskier nodded weakly.

Geralt reached for the discarded handkerchief, spat in it, and rubbed the dried fluids from Jaskier’s belly.

“We’ll fix you, Jaskier,” he said after a minute of silence, and Jaskier looked up at him. “Well, not _all_ your shortcomings obviously, it’s too late for that,” he added with a smile. “But this, we’ll fix.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“If every man deemed a ‘lustful liar’ was cursed, and such curses were irreversible, the cities would be full of people who were…”

“...Avoided for something other than their personality?” 

“Mm. Exactly.”

Jaskier thought about it for a moment, a particular word having stood out to him…

“Liar,” Jaskier repeated under his breath. _‘You will be punished for your lust and lies’_ the fortune-teller had said. It was probably a stretch, a clutching of straws, but maybe, just maybe, _that_ was the solution, the criteria Geralt spoke of, the key to lifting the curse…

He turned to Geralt. “You know, Geralt…” he said with sad lamentation, “…I wasn’t _always_ such a great lover…”

Geralt snorted a laugh.

“Oi, less of that, if you don’t mind!” Jaskier protested.

“Apologies. Please continue…o great lover.”

“Look, the truth is…I didn’t sleep with the number of people I mentioned at Oxenfurt, probably half that if I'm honest, and it wasn’t always to the critical acclaim I have previously alluded to. I was a bit of a clumsy youth, you see. Didn’t really know what I was doing. And people made sure I knew that. I was often criticised for my sexual incompetence. Would you believe, some people even called me boring! I mean _me!? Boring!?_ But I confess, one woman took to crocheting during our romps. She’d actually made a rather lovely blanket by the end of the year. Put beads on it and everything. Gave it to her dog, said it reminded her of me, but I digress–”

Geralt winced. “Jaskier, you don’t need to-”

“Quiet, Geralt. I’m baring my soul here.”

“Sorry.”

“The point is, I lied, or at least stretched the truth. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve since improved of course, through a combination of hard work, perseverance, and low standards.”

Geralt pressed his lips together and shook his head.

“But…now and again…” Jaskier continued, and this time Geralt noticed he was quieter, more hesitant,, “…now and again I still manage to embarrass myself, and most of the time, when I do, it’s with you. I talk too much, I spill too quickly, and now… _now_ I’ve got a bloody _glove_ fetish to my name.” Jaskier threw his arm over his eyes theatrically and groaned. “Urgh. Who am I fooling? I’m a _terrible_ lover! I should just forget the whole thing, find a higher calling, take a vow of celibacy and be done with it all.”

Geralt looked down at him and smiled.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Jaskier,” he said, gently pulling Jaskier’s arm from his face and meeting his reluctant gaze. “You wouldn’t last a month without sex, you wouldn’t last a week without touching yourself, and you wouldn’t last a day without mentioning at least one of them. And you’re not terrible.”

“I’m…not?” Jaskier said suspiciously.

“Difficult, perhaps; demanding, certainly; but not terrible. At least not to me. You do talk a lot in bed, but I’m used to it, and the more you do, the less I have to. You spill quickly, but that suits me fine, I’m too old to fuck for hours. And as for your leather preferences…well, I’ll keep that information to myself,” he added as a tease.

“Do you…really mean that?”

“Well, I might let it slip while I’m drunk.”

“No, I mean the rest of it…”

“I wouldn’t lie to make you feel better, Jaskier,” Geralt said, turning onto his back and getting comfortable, “I’m not that compassionate.”

Jaskier gazed at Geralt fondly. “Perhaps more than you think,” he said softly.

Geralt's eyes remained on his then, rather oddly, looked emphatically down between his legs, and when Jaskier followed his stare, he caught sight of his own cock, his own cock that was lying soft, and curled up against his thigh.

“Geralt! Geralt! It’s gone down, Geralt! Look! Look at me, I’m as droopy as a dead ferret on a washing line!”

Geralt smiled. “Thank fuck. Never thought I’d be so grateful for the sight of _your_ shriveled little prick.”

“Ha! Nor I, and never in a million years did I imagine I’d be saying that!” Jaskier laughed.

Once the elation of being free of his curse had passed however, he turned back to Geralt and shimmied closer, stroking his shoulder with the tip of his finger.

“Thank you, Geralt, for your…initially reluctant support tonight.”

“Not a problem, I will continue to fuck you with considerable reluctance.”

“...And with your considerable witcher-cock,” he winked, feeling a little sly.

“We’re not playing that game any more, Jaskier.”

“Well now, that’s a damned shame. Can we play it again sometime?”

Geralt thought about it. He’d quite enjoyed it.

“If I’m…in the mood,” he said.

“And to get you in the mood you need...a drink and a–”

“Massage,” they finished in unison, and Geralt nodded, then blew out the candle, closed his eyes, lay still for a moment, then yanked Jaskier down onto his chest.

Jaskier smiled and cuddled into him, falling asleep to the sound of the wind whistling through the shutters and the distant chime of bells in the town square.

*

They descended the stairs to the tavern around lunchtime the next day, Geralt listening to Jaskier as he happily chattered away.

“...And the great beast of a man dragged the physician into the hall by the collar and started yelling at him in front of everyone.I was sure he was going to kill him! _‘How can my wife possibly be pregnant!?’_ he roared, _‘I haven’t slept with her in three years on account of her dreadful snoring!’_ And do you know what the physician said? Get this, Geralt. He said: _‘her snoring isn’t_ _that_ _bad. She’s fine once you roll her over.’_ Ha! Truly! I thought: I’ll _have_ to write a song about this. I mean-”

As Jaskier reached the final step, he froze, his eyes drawn to a familiar combination of bright, fringed fabrics by the table in the corner.

“ _You!_ ” he shrieked.

The old woman glanced at up at him then quickly grabbed her bag and shuffled out the tavern door, her hasty exit only further proving her guilt.

“Oh no you don’t! Get back here, you old witch!” Jaskier cried out, chasing after her in a flash of blue silk.

Geralt quietly followed him and rested lazily on the doorframe, watching Jaskier just as he caught her by the wrist.

“I expect you’re proud of yourself?” Jaskier said to her.

She scowled and tried unsuccessfully to shake off his grip. “Hmph. Somewhat.”

“Ah-ha! So you admit it! You admit that you were responsible!”

“I saw fit to teach you a lesson, child.”

“Oh, I learned my lesson all right, not to speak to suspicious old women during dessert. I’ll let you off lightly, but only because I’ve made a full recovery and want to put all this horrid business behind me. You should be grateful for that, because had I not managed to lift that wicked curse of yours, my behaviour right now would be a lot less civil.”

The fortune-teller squinted at him. “Curse? What curse?”

Jaskier pulled a face, looking from side to side then back at her. “I…what? The curse… _the_ curse, the one you put on me.”

“I have no dealings in curses, child. Nor did another curse you. That was all poppycock. I thought you had realised that. I merely dosed your apple pie with a potion. That _is_ my trade, after all.”

“What? So wait, you’re _not_ a fortune teller?”

“No, nor am I a witch, but not all care for potions. I have to make a living. I do what I must.”

“But…but all that ‘lustful liar’ talk–”

“It takes no fortune-teller nor seer to discern that, silly boy, just eyes and ears.”

Jaskier was speechless.

“Now leave me be. I’ll not use such a potion again, if it satisfies you.”

Jaskier let go of her arm, and stood there, completely lost. He narrowed his eyes and scratched the back of his head as he watched the woman trudge through the mud then called after her: “But the curse…I lifted it! It stopped right after–”

“–It was temporary,” she called back. “To wear off but after a few hours, before the midnight bell-toll, I would imagine.”

“W-wear off?”

Jaskier remembered the bells being the last thing he heard before he went to sleep, and indeed, right before that, his recovery.

He felt the blood drain from his face. _There…was no curse._

Geralt strolled up to him, smirking and slapping him on the shoulder.

“I-I…G-Geralt…” he stammered. “Umm…so you see all those things I said last night, about my sexual failings. You know, I may have been over-exaggerating, selling myself short. I do that sometimes. Become a bit too modest you see, and–”

Geralt strode past Jaskier, smiling.

“I mean, I’m…rather good really. In fact, someone once told me–Uhh…Geralt? Where are…?” Jaskier stopped and looked around.

“Geralt! W-wait for me, Geralt!”

But Geralt forged ahead, ignoring the distant ramblings.

 _Jaskier hadn’t learned his lesson at all. In fact, the bard may_ **_**never** _ ** _change…_

_…but he could probably live with that._

**Author's Note:**

> So that's that!
> 
> This was fun to write. I'm not going to lie, even I cringed when it came to Geralt's 'dirty talk'. I think he's going to need to practice. XD I didn't even try to be sensual with this one, so I apologise for the ridiculous sex.
> 
> Technically, this *wasn't* a curse fic, but for all intents and purposes it was. I've actually never read a curse fic from any fandom with an established/semi-established relationship, it's usually used as vehicle for getting two people together, so I don't know if this works or not. It's a bit of 'another day at the office' for my two, they're like an old, bickering married couple despite being 'friends who have sex'. Maybe I'll start having to use that 'domestic' tag. XD
> 
> The 'Geralt opening a bakery' comment near the start was a reference to a throwaway line from my fic Gifts and Stories, needless to say, Geralt does not want to open a bakery, Jaskier's just teasing him. I just like tossing continuity about. As I usually mention, all my fics can be read as standalones, but they can also be read as a series - set in the same universe, if you wanted to dip in and out, or chronologically if you ever felt the need to start from 'Company' and read through them. There are six though! XD
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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